It's a Tragedy
by The Rainbow Rocket
Summary: 'Bold, yet concerned eyes follow his every move. And he fidgets too much. Sleeves are nervously tugged by thin, long, elegant fingers'. North Italy starts to drastically change in his mission for perfection, and the other nations just begin to notice. Warning: Could contain triggers in regards to eating disorders.


**Hetalia is not mine. I do not own it nor its characters. Major trigger warnings. If you are in any way triggered by reading this story, please do not read. And if you do, then read at your own risk. I apologize in advance for any spelling or grammar errors.**

_._

_'It's a tragedy'_, he remembers.

The foggy colors floating around the white toilet bowl,

As his empty brown eyes travel upwards,

Upwards to face the blank white ceiling.

He doesn't know when it began...

He doesn't know when it will end.

And it only makes him heave a bit more.

No more bile dares to come out.

Only painful acid that tears at his tortured throat and insides.

.

Flash forward to the monthly World Meeting.

Bold, yet concerned eyes follow his every move.

And he fidgets too much.

Sleeves are nervously tugged

By thin, long, elegant fingers,

Which have tiny unsightly scars on the knuckles.

Then sky-blue crystal eyes enter the room to meet a muddy,dirty brown,

An unspoken question between them.

_'Are you okay?'_

It did not get a response,

Just an empty, fragile smile.

.

His brother makes a rare appearance,

And brings all kind of delicious pasta with him.

The ones made with all the Alfredo sauce,

And especially the ones with gooey, creamy cheese.

"Eat it, bastard," he says.

"I made this just for you, since I haven't seen you in while."

.

_'That tomato bastard said that food is love, anyways.'_

_'So I'm giving you some fucking love,'_

Is what went through the foul-mouthed Italian's head.

.

"Okay." Came the cheery reply.

The slightly younger brother clears plate after plate, without hesitation.

They talk about the world, and a certain relationship.

By the time he finished the third though, the other had already left.

After all, if he was able to eat that much, he's just fine then.

Too bad the real show only began after the meal.

No one ever stayed for the _main event._

.

Two weeks afterwards, baggy clothes start to get too baggy.

Brittle hair starts to let go of more of its delicate, russet strands.

And then the hunger starts to dull into a constant ache.

_'This is a tragedy'_, he bluntly thinks to himself.

When did the lines start to blur...

.

When did he realize that he was too heavy to be in training?

Notice that he still had too much baby fat on his cheeks?

See exactly how much he'd eaten every day?

Understand the truth?

The one that he loved as a child may never come back,

But if he does...

_'I'll look wonderful_', he thinks,

Mindlessly pinching all of his imperfections he sees in the mirror.

_'He'll love me with all of his heart.'_

_'Only then will I be the happiest I've ever been._'

.

A gentle knock sounds upon his door one late Saturday morning,

And it is opened to invite a certain friend inside.

However, after initial greetings are exchanged,

With one being enthusiastic and the other reserved,

Something seems off about the enthusiasm.

Maybe it's the subtle furrow in the other's face,

Or the slight hollowness that lies there.

But the wide smile that stretched from ear to ear was unsettling.

And it is noticed.

.

"Italy-kun...you appear thinner. Have you had good sleep?" The visitor asked.

A bird loudly chirps outside, disrupting the awkward silence.

"I'm just fine," was the trained response.

The same smile stays constant, if not even wider.

"You don't need to worry!"

It doesn't stop the worry in the other's mind,

But relief fills it when empty plates are spotted on the kitchen table.

The entire visit is filled with pleasantries and small talk,

And the other leaves with their usual formal farewell.

.

This time, four weeks pass.

And the last belt loop is finally reached.

_But wasn't he already thin enough?_

_'No'_, he responds, to no one in particular. Just himself.

_'I need to be perfect for him, so I'll be lovely and good enough.'_

_'I need to be absolutely perfect for him.'_

_'I need to be perfect.'_

_'I need to be...'_

_'I need...'_

_'I need.'_

Because he needs so much...

Maybe that's why he gets so little.

.

The tears later that same night were enough to fill an ocean.

_'Could it be an ocean that I could drown in?_', he listlessly wonders.

The bed creaks from all of his tossing and turning.

All of the blankets are piled on top of his body,

Desperately trying to keep his shivering form warm.

As usual, the dull ache of his stomach kept him awake.

And he decides he has never been so incredibly lonely in his life...

.

Finally, the day has come.

The day a few nations will get together and convene.

Each with their own separate thoughts about a dear friend.

"His uniform hangs off of him," the French man says.

A German chooses to speak.

"Ja, I'm worried. I ask him what is wrong, but he just smiles."

"What the hell do you mean? He looked fine to me when I last seen his pasta face."

"Yes, Lovino, but when was the last time you'd seen him?" Came the calm response from a certain Spaniard.

Nothing else was said from the grumpy, yet shocked, Italian.

His bearings were quickly recovered though, with a snappy retort.

"I still say he's just fucking fine."

A cold silence fills the room in which the rest of the nations usually meet.

"Excuse me, but if you had attended the meeting today, you would know especially what we are worried about."

The Italian shoots a cold glare at the Japanese man from across the table.

The one being glared at defiantly glares back in defense,

And only then does the other realize just how desperate this situation has become.

"Fine, but you fuckers better not think you fucking know him more than me."

They all leave the room with troubled thoughts that day.

The Italian one especially.

.

It is noon, and he is hungry.

It is evening, and he is hungry.

It is midnight, and he is sleepy.

It is daybreak, and he is lonely.

His brown eyes shut down once in while,

But the sharp pangs of hunger always linger behind.

A silent knife in an otherwise peaceful scene.

The old phone rings from the dusty, unused kitchen, echoing off of the bare walls.

He doesn't answer.

Nor does he even blink.

.

A week later, he wakes with a harsh banging on his door.

It takes him one, two, three tries to lift himself off the bed.

It only takes him five to bring himself to smile.

He's quick to get dressed,

And he doesn't care about buttoning the top button on his shirt.

He doesn't care much anymore.

''What is it?'' He cheerfully says, opening the door,

Only to briefly have his heart stop in his chest.

Four nations appear to have gathered outside his door;

One with a plate of homemade spaghetti,

One with a container of cooked and seasoned wurst,

One with an array of croissants,

And the last with tasteful sushi.

The door nearly slams in their faces,

But they are reluctantly let inside.

.

They find that his normally bright house is dusty.

It's tidy, no doubt about that,

Not a single thing out of place.

But it was all dusty.

The German sets his plate down on the table.

He then looks for a featherduster.

The Asian holds his light dish... and his breath.

The French man tries his best not to embrace the frail Italian instantly.

And the other Italian just mutters curses under his breath.

_'How did I fucking miss this?'_ He thinks, in the midst of all his cursing.

His brother was fine just last month.

Right?

.

Later on, they all sit down at the small, cozy dining table.

The frightfully thin Italian is seemingly cornered.

Dishes lay side by side in front of him,

Each with their very own poison.

And the very same Italian is very, very scared.

The croissants have too much butter.

The sushi has too much cholesterol, because of the shrimp.

The wurst is oozing with grease.

And the spaghetti...

Well...

.

Is he even allowed to eat pasta anymore?

Does he deserve to eat pasta anymore?

Does he deserve to eat at all?

_'No'._

_'No, because this will ruin me. This will be the death of me.'_

_'I won't be able to even eat it anyways, right?'_

_'I need to stay strong.'_

_'I need to stay perfect.'_

His insatiable need for perfection paralyzes him.

It seems akin to a battle of life or death...

.

It takes five full minutes for one of them to even dare speak.

"We brought you some food, Italia-kun, please eat it."

No response nor move comes from the quivering figure in the chair.

"Come on, Mon Ami, please eat my croissants. I made them, see?"

Nothing seems to happen.

A frustrated sigh along with a curse comes from the one farthest from his own brother.

The German notices this, but ignores it and focuses on the other Italian.

"Italy?...I used only the best wurst I could find. I know you liked them."

Nothing.

"Oh for fuck's sakes you bastard, eat the goddamn food already!"

Then the table shakes with a sudden hit from a strong fist.

Not even a blink.

The angry, yet concerned Italian brother stands from his chair quickly.

His hands are raised.

"Listen you-"

"Touch him and I will personally make sure you won't be able to lift a hand towards anyone in your life."

A German stares daggers at the angry Italian while speaking.

They are now at a checkmate.

"He's my brother," came the seething reply. "I would never fucking hurt him!"

"Intentionally." A Japanese man quipped.

Now, that was very unexpected, and everyone was startled.

But no one came to the defense of the one being accused.

"Calm down everyone, this isn't helping anything!"

The French one stood abruptly, ready to stop any blows about to be released.

No one moves.

.

Ten minutes.

Ten long, silent minutes is what it takes for something to happen.

The cornered Italian suddenly pushes away all the dishes and stands up.

"I'm leaving," he declares. "I'm not hungry."

On the inside his stomach roars in protest-

His hunger fizzles in disappointment-

His mind clouds over-

But his determination does not.

It does not falter in the least.

They look on with shocked expressions

None of them attempt to get him back.

None of them even stand.

Mechanically, he walks toward the front door.

He shuffles his feet forwards.

He wills them to move.

It is wide open.

He magically makes his way into the driveway.

He manages just fine.

It is a slow walk, but he reaches the street-

.

-Where a tsunami carries him away.

Just like that.

No pain, no mess...

.

...Where a gun shoots him in the heart.

Where a car mysteriously crashes into him.

Where a-

.

"Eat, Italy."

However, he does none of the aforementioned things.

His mind is still cloudy, yes.

His hunger still restlessly carries on, of course.

And his stomach still tries to speak for its behalf.

Actually, all he does is noisily shift his fork from plate to plate.

Indecisive, trying to pick the very last dish he will ever eat in his life.

By now it has occurred to everyone that this,

Whatever 'this' is,

Is a very, very serious problem.

It takes another five minutes for a bite to be eaten

And three more for it to be entirely swallowed.

This will take a while.

.

It has been 15 minutes so far.

In the span of fifteen minutes, the piles of food are gone.

There are no leftovers.

There are no smears of sauce.

Every last crumb of food is gone, swallowed by the thin Italian.

"Mein Gott, how did he..."

"He is going to burst... Should I get some herbal tea?"

"He ate the whole fucking thing?"

But the French one is not fooled.

He knows something the others don't.

.

"The rest of you may leave," he starts.

"But I will watch over him, just to be sure."

Abruptly different expressions crossed their faces.

Both of the Italians had their features filled with annoyance.

The German's was rather irritated.

And the Asian's was a little fearful.

"You should all know I wouldn't touch a hair on his head!"

Even with that they still looked doubtful.

The Italian was the one to leave first.

"I need to go see what the tomato bastard is up to."

The front door slammed right behind him.

"I have paperwork to go over with my bosses. I shall call."

This time, it was closed gently.

"Italy... Please. Eat something. You can't be a good soldier if you don't have a good appetite."

The front door closed reluctantly.

It was just the French man and the Italian left.

.

"I have to go to the bathroom," the Italian states.

An innocent glance towards the other.

A slight widening of the dull hazel eyes,

A tiny frown just barely peeking on his face,

And a marginal furrow in his brow.

.

But the other quickly narrowed his own dark blue eyes.

"Oh, is that so? Then you wouldn't mind if I gave you a breath mint afterwards?"

For the second time again, his heart stopped beating.

"A... Breath mint? No, I won't be needing that, it's just-"

"-It's just that you already have gum? My, you've gotten good at this then."

The Italian was completely stunned. But the French man continued.

"It must be such shame if anyone were to think of you as anything but happy."

"After all, Feliciano isn't Feliciano if he isn't happy."

.

He doesn't go to the bathroom, as he had wanted to.

Neither of them talk for the rest of the evening.

The Italian stayed in his room for the rest of the night,

And as always, there was no sleep.

And this time, there was no usual emptiness either.

Just a heavy rock where his stomach should have been.

.

The French one, however, made himself quite comfortable in the spare bedroom,

A glass of wine in hand.

Satisfied, thinking he had nipped the problem in the bud,

So it couldn't grow anymore.

Little did he know of the agony,

The hell,

The eternal self-loathing he had put the other in that night.

And the endless nightmares!

Oh, those were the worst...

.

_Mountains of food,_

_Faces of all his close friends, everyone he cared about,_

_All of them telling him to eat, that it's okay,_

_And afterwards yelling at him,_

_Yelling and screaming and laughing when he dares eat a bite,_

_And then once it's chewed, his pants rip open,_

_His shirt tears in two,_

_And even his shoes start to wickedly pinch._

_He is now too big._

_He is not Feliciano Vargas anymore, no._

_He is Fatty-iano Fatass, a pitiful excuse for a country,_

_The weakest link in the chain._

_And above all the commotion,_

_Above all the familiar faces and the congealed food mountain,_

_Is a boy with familiar wheat blond hair,_

_And crystal blue eyes._

_He turns away, distressed._

_Crying._

_"What have you done?" The little child whispers._

.

And then-

.

The next morning, he doesn't even bother to fake his signature smile.

He just blatantly refuses to eat.

However, the French man makes no move to force him.

.

_'Perhaps it's all for attention?'_

_'Maybe once he finally realizes that he's not that smart anymore, he'll be fine.'_

_'He'll start eating again, and that will be that.'_

So, he munches on a delicious, although stale, pastry he found in the cupboard.

A cup of coffee, already sweetened, in front of him.

"Feliciano, how did you sleep?" Is all he asks.

"Fine." Is all the answer he gets.

All the answer that the other can choke out.

.

The next day, the French man finally leaves.

All the Italian had eaten were just pure vegetables, clean, healthy-

But still had the dreaded calories.

For the second day in a row, the Italian had eaten too much for his own good.

And he knew it too.

He had gotten so far, so far...

"It would have only been a matter of time before I could have been perfect!

Free of imperfections...

Light as air, pure as sunlight...

But now I am much too full..."

At least, that's what he whispered in the bathroom that night.

He had gotten so far lost into his misery, that's the truth.

And it was killing him.

_What a tragedy..._


End file.
